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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595651">Naughty</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally'>nastally</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Art, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, Nude Modeling, Tongue-in-cheek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 07:08:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,067</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24595651</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nastally/pseuds/nastally</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Freddie's new part-time job allows for an opportunity to let the mind wander...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Freddie Mercury Weekend 2020!</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Naughty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/quirkysubject/gifts">quirkysubject</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I had so much fun with this. Just a little something, written for Freddie Mercury Weekend 2020, for this prompt:</p><p> </p><p>  <b>That Time Freddie Was A Nude Model</b><br/><i>Though still living at home, Fred was expected to earn some money of his own [...] before long, he had discovered a more lucrative source of income [than manual work at Heathrow], as a life model for the college’s evening art class. Fred introduced Mark Malden to the job, and before long both were earning £5 for a couple of hours’ work, posing naked for what Malden remembers as ‘a lot of old women and a few old men’.</i><br/>- Mark Blake (ITRL)</p><p> </p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>Ealing Art College, 1968</i>
</p><p>- - - </p><p>Freddie tried to breathe evenly while attempting to keep his stomach muscles engaged, just a little. Natural, yes, but it would have been undeniably unattractive if he’d just relaxed completely. </p><p>Not that attractiveness was key here, he was well aware of that. It was <i>art</i>, after all. The shape of the human body. Nothing more. Not that he cared very much whether these old ladies (and the gentleman in the corner) thought he was a pretty boy or not.</p><p>Freddie cast a very quick glance around the room, surreptitiously scanning the artists’ faces. Some of their eyes were on their sketchpads, others studying his naked form. </p><p>Immediately and involuntarily, his muscles tensed, hoping to mold his body, by sheer force of will, into something resembling a male beauty ideal he had no chance of achieving. Ridiculous, really. </p><p>Fine, so perhaps he did care. What of it? It was only natural. Any man who claimed he didn’t care what he looked like naked was a filthy liar. </p><p>Freddie glanced down. At least the room was comfortably warm. </p><p>His eyes returned to the blinds which sliced the sunlight that fell through them. God, it had been- what, ten minutes? There was a clock on the wall somewhere to his right, but he couldn't turn his head to look. Freddie briefly bemoaned his lack of foresight when he had chosen this position. He was already losing circulation in his left arm. It was going to be agony in another twenty minutes or so.</p><p>Five pounds, he reminded himself. </p><p>Five pounds.</p><p>Better occupy his mind with something else. </p><p>Something else entirely. </p><p>A few small shadows flickered past the blinds. A flock of birds flitting by.</p><p>But it was a bit scandalous, wasn’t it? </p><p>Almost as though he was selling his body. Or at least his bodily presence. Taking his clothes off for money. <i>Naughty</i>. If his parents knew… Well, that was to say, his mother did know he was modelling for an art class. She didn’t know about the <i>sans clothes</i> part. For a while, Freddie amused himself by trying to picture his parents' reactions if he'd simply come out and told them. He couldn’t deny that it was a bit of a thrill, knowing how much they would have probably disapproved. Even though, quite honestly, one would have thought they ought to recognise that this was far more sophisticated than lugging about crates in a warehouse. </p><p>After all, it was all in the name of fine art.</p><p><i>How much do they charge for it?</i> Freddie wondered. The women who sold their bodies. More than five pounds, one would assume. And men. There had to be men, too.</p><p>What was he thinking? Well, of course there had to be. It made sense. Although it wasn’t as though women had much need for it, perhaps. Surely almost any woman could simply walk into any establishment and find a suitor - if she really wanted to. </p><p>To have that kind of power…</p><p>Freddie rolled his shoulders the tiniest bit and felt his muscles crackle. God, this was more exhausting than he’d anticipated. Sitting perfectly still. It wasn’t exactly <i>fun</i>. Not that he had expected it to be that, of course.</p><p>Five pounds. </p><p>There had to be very well-paid, high class prostitutes who enjoyed what they did. Who had enough freedom to choose their clientele. Or perhaps that was just a romantic fantasy? Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so bad, all of it, once you got used to it. One could get used to practically anything, after all. </p><p>Freddie took a deep breath and wiggled his fingers a little on top of his thigh.</p><p>And wondered how much money he might be able to make, should he decide to dabble in the oldest profession of the world. How much would he be worth? Oh, he’d never seriously consider it, of course. The very thought. Ridiculous. </p><p>But if he <i>were</i> someone who charged for sex he would be very high class. Provide tantalising conversation as well as a good shag, Freddie thought, and bit the inside of his cheek, trying to keep from laughing. </p><p>Deep breath. </p><p>What a thought. </p><p>Then again, perhaps not. Entertaining women he had no interest in and then having to satisfy them on top of that? What a nightmare. </p><p><i>It could be men</i>, a quiet voice at the back of his head piped up. Well. That was certainly true. It could. If they were so inclined. After all, realistically speaking, did he really have the looks to be an expensive courtesan? Or really, anything more than an average rent boy? So then, if he <i>were</i> someone who was selling his body, he wouldn’t exactly be free to choose who he sold it to. Not all the time anyway, if he wanted to make ends meet. Why, he’d simply be <i>forced</i> to. Forced to… submit. To the men who wanted him for the night. Wanted to fuck him. He’d really have very little say in the matter, wouldn’t he?</p><p>Freddie shifted minutely on his chair, feeling his cheeks glow warm. God, the heating was turned up a bit high after all, wasn't it? </p><p>How many clients per night would it take, to make a living? </p><p>His mind presented him with a fantasy of faceless, burly bodies and large, strong hands. Holding him down. Gripping his hair to hold him in place while he choked on-</p><p>Freddie's lips parted as he let out a small breath, his heartbeat all of a sudden too fast and high up in his chest, so much so that he was sure all these people looking at him might notice it if they looked closely enough.</p><p>Art supplies! Yes. Those were important. He really needed some of those. A new sketchbook and a small set of Faber-Castells. That’s where these five pounds would go. That and perhaps a drink or two at the pub. With Rosemary. She was a dear. Such a lovely girl. </p><p>Maybe this weekend. He ought to ask her, he really ought to, Freddie thought. </p><p>But even so, the thoughts he had pushed aside lingered, there at the edge of his mind. Stored away. Until late at night, when he was alone in his room. In bed. </p><p>And there was not a soul present to observe him nor judge him. </p><p>Only his own self. </p><p>Turning a blind eye to his perverse imaginings. </p><p>- - -</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Freddie: *takes up nude modelling for art classes* I am suCH A REBEL! 🤭</p></blockquote></div></div>
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